Memento
by EOlivet
Summary: No matter what happened, the world as they knew it ended tonight.


Disclaimer: The characters described herein are the property of Julian Fellowes and ITV. No copyright infringement is intended.

Timeline: Based on spec for S2, but goes AU after that. Set in 1916.

Acknowledgments: Thanks to my sister for her support, and to the Bluebell News for the inspiration (though definitely not the content). Apologies to Mr. Fellowes himself for appropriating a couple of his lines.

* * *

><p>For the first time in a very long time, she felt as if she was truly awake. Or at the very least...she was no longer asleep. She was warm. Comfortable. The most content she'd been in a great while.<p>

Remembering what she had previously promised to herself, she began gathering the details of the scene for safekeeping. The morning sunlight on her back. The dirt caked onto her hands. The ground under her feet - soft and dewy at this early hour.

A blanket- no...his jacket draped over her (them).

The feel of his arms clasped round her waist. His chin resting atop her head. The rise and fall of his chest as her ear lay against it...the ticking of his heartbeat, his still slumbering breathing.

She wanted more than anything to open her eyes - to take in the scene, to see it for herself and form an image to go along with the slivers of memory she had collected, but seeing would make it too real, and reality had no place here, in the early morning sunlight.

Screwing her eyes shut tightly, she tried not to move...thinking she might be able to stop time once more through sheer force of will.

But he was already shifting, his grip on her slipping, his eyes surely opening. _Think of this, remember this_, but it was already fading.

Despite her best intentions, reality had found them, the early morning sunlight blotting out the last remnants of the night.

It was gone. One by one, she placed the memories away. Tomorrow, next week, months later, in several years, for the rest of her days, she would have this.

When they cut her open, they would find him engraved on her heart.

* * *

><p>She forgot herself, forgot everything the moment he kissed her. All she knew is she never wanted it to stop.<p>

Her lips parted, and suddenly they were no longer brushing against his, but drinking them in (not the same, yet exactly the same) and now it was not even her lips, but their mouths slanting against, under, over one another.

He was still holding her hand, reaching the other one up to clasp her face, and she sighed into his mouth, her hands on his chest...trailing down seemingly of their own volition to where his jacket was fastened.

Her boldness was as much of a shock to him as it was to her, and she heard him gasp in surprise. But his mouth continued to move under hers, over and over, his tongue flicking against her teeth, so it was almost as if he was speaking to her without words. She could only imagine the silent questions his lips were forming...

_Should I propose to you..._ as he moved his hands up to grasp her shoulders.

His jacket was removed with a determination she didn't realize either of them possessed. Her hands then traveled lightly over his back...the material of his shirt seeming to scratch against her fingers as she learned its texture.

_Should I pretend nothing ever happened..._ His fingers slipping inside her blouse, in between the spaces of silk to glance against her skin, and the lace of her intimate finery that at long last was no longer a corset.

She moaned softly (not an answer), taking hold of his tie, working the knot loose but going no further.

_Should I just walk away..._ His other hand was on her knee, resting atop her skirt, sliding down where her legs were arranged prettily to her side, moving his thumb over her ankle as his fingers lost themselves in the fabric.

Instinctively, she pulled him towards her, and they fell together amongst the grass. Her eyes were closed, but she had not quite taken leave of her other senses just yet. She could still feel...his body atop hers, hers responding to all she could feel from his.

Her eyelids blinked open only to find him staring at her, perhaps feeling all that she did. "Mary..." His voice was hoarsely infused with the reality of the situation. "I don't want you to-"

She silenced him with a kiss, draping her arms leisurely around his neck as if his concern for her was something of no consequence (obviously she had no virtue to protect, but he was not to know that). Pulling back, she considered telling him. But fear forced her into a more oblique response.

"What does it matter?" she asked, and it was not entirely a lie. What did it matter now, here, tonight? What did any of it matter?

Any further protests he had remained unspoken, as his mouth once more opened to hers, one hand resting on her hip as his fingers reached up to caress her cheek.

Their bodies pressed ever more tightly together, warming the brisk evening air. The heat made her bolder - one hand sliding down his arm, past his hand...just as the hand on her hip began to reach lower. She bent her knee, carelessly wrapping her leg around his, her skirts now settling somewhere north of her ankle.

One of his hands was on her knee, while the other alighted near her collar, and with a bit of surprisingly deft maneuvering, suddenly the opening of her blouse had deepened dramatically. His kisses had gradually lengthened and slowed, as if time itself was passing at a more leisurely pace. Bowing his head, she felt his lips...then his mouth upon her upper chest - one hand very gently making its way beneath the straps of lace under her blouse...

Then all at once, he pulled away - his glance almost panicked as she opened her eyes to meet his. She could see how the sky had turned dark around them. The sun was completely gone, she thought, the day completely done, and she shivered at the idea (for many reasons).

"We- we must think about this," he rasped, barely managing to find voice. "About the...consequences."

The idea almost made her laugh. Only he would think of consequences at a time like this. "Why start now?" she intoned, quietly - adhering to their previous agreement by the letter of it, if not the spirit.

Not on this night, the last night before the world they'd known was gone (which was just barely hyperbole in this instance). Someone's world would surely end - be it his or hers, with all the ways he could be lost to her.

No matter what happened, the world as they knew it ended tonight.

This she tried to tell him with her gaze fixed upon his face, awaiting the exact moment he understood. Drawing in a breath, he looked directly at her, asking another silent question, which she answered with an unblinking, resolute stare.

Time seemed to speed up after that, moments flying by as their mouths clashed eagerly and their hands worked diligently, efficiently, ridding themselves and each other of only the essentials - a feverish mix of breath and belts, zippers and skirts, underthings and skin...hidden, private, secret skin that became a new venue for their frantic exploration of one another.

There was so much she thought she knew, so much she wanted to know, so much she was learning in so short a time, but they had no time - no time at all - entire years squandered, gone to waste, and now all that they had was the remains of this last night.

And suddenly, quite without realizing how exactly it had happened, he was within her, and all she thought she knew was gone. She knew nothing - nothing at all, nothing before or after, only this.

Once more, she could feel time slowing, matching its pace to theirs - their rushed touches melting into something infinitely more intimate. She held him to her with her hands and legs, felt him in every inch of her, heard his sighs in her ears, breathed his breath, tasted his kisses - but did not dare open her eyes for fear they would give her away...

She engaged with him in every way - give and take, rise and fall, back and forth...their bodies meeting in a new form of discourse. To only be discovering something she never knew could feel so wonderful on a night such as this seemed almost cruel, and she bit her lip to fight back the emotions that had unexpectedly taken hold of her.

Her body convulsed blissfully, a quiet moan escaping her throat as she reached out a hand to steady herself, her fist closing around grass and...dirt. Mud. Exhaling sharply, she flung her other hand out, grabbing at the earth. Forcing herself to concentrate when every ounce of her wanted to give herself over to the sensations pulsing through her body, over and over and over...and oh, she could not lose herself just yet...

With a sigh, she grabbed hold of his shoulders, over his back with her dirty hands - branding him, imprinting this world and Downton and her upon him (around him).

_It is only mud. It is not so different from this. It is the same mud, same earth, same world - it will not change, it is the same, we are the same, you will be the same. This mud, this night - when you think of the mud, when you are in the mud, think of this, remember this..._

The mantra echoed in her head (_Think of this, remember this_), as their movements quickened - as if he could hear all she was thinking (perhaps he could). They were joined in every way; it would not shock her if this glorious, impossible act had somehow fused their minds as well.

_Think of this, remember this..._ Breathing roughly, kissing hungrily, moving frenetically, she started to hear it for herself. _When you are engaged, married to whoever is foolish enough to have you, there will be nothing, nothing that can take this night away...think of this, remember this..._

Her gasps became more vocal, his groans echoing in her ears, her hands felt plastered to his back, his shirt sticking to his skin, his breath on her neck, her chin tilted upwards. Beneath him, her legs began to spasm as her body writhed, and she couldn't think, couldn't remember, it was all a blur - remember, remember the touch of his hand, the sound of his voice, the taste of his kiss, the feel of him inside her and this, this, oh how she would never forget this-

His hand cradled her face, his mouth at her cheek, hearing, feeling as he emitted one last, loud, long sigh, and it was over...over, but it could not be, must not be (never be) - and she found herself reaching for him, continuing to kiss him in desperation, wanting to hold on, wanting time to stop until she could think clearly enough to remember it all.

He kissed her back with equal passion, and her heart soared, then plummeted, as suddenly all she could remember was it was their last night, and why, why, all that time gone, all that time they would never get back, even if it had seemed to stop for all those precious minutes.

Their mouths clung fervently to one another, and they kept touching - though nothing so purposeful or intimate as before. She felt his hands on her cheeks, in her hair, on her back, and hers followed a similar pattern, eventually coming to rest in a gentle loop around his neck, as his seemed to settle on her waist and they couldn't stop, couldn't let go, tasting sweat and tears and the night and time they no longer had.

Suddenly even that was over, as she found herself being wrenched, torn from his lips, pressed against his chest in a fierce embrace, and all she could do was wrap her arms around and hold on. She started speaking noiselessly, involuntarily pouring out her heart, her lips moving against his chest in a series of endearments she could never, ever speak aloud, not now - not even on this last night, and she could feel his lips moving against her hair and wondered at what he was saying (though she knew, oh God, she knew) - simultaneously being sad and grateful she could hear none of it.

The night was dark, even through closed eyes, and she kept telling herself to open them, but she could not, would not because that would make it real - everything she was losing, had lost - and she might lose the will to remain silent, and no, the time for that was months, years ago, not tonight. Not now (not ever).

Instead, she allowed herself to indulge in yet another sad fantasy, falling asleep in his arms...her head against his chest, listening to his breathing, pressed to his heart. A blanket (there was no blanket...something else then) now draped over her back, covering them both. _Think of this, remember this..._, and then the night overtook her.

* * *

><p>This had been a mistake.<p>

That much was clear from the moment they had started on the road leading them back. The silence between them was almost deafening. Time had somehow robbed them of their ability to speak to each other.

It had been that way the night before, of course, but now it seemed to have intensified. Glancing off into the distance, she allowed herself a moment to watch the sunset, the colors much darker than before. Soon, they would lose the light, and it would all be gone.

He walked beside her - his strides now seeming more purposeful. _He even walks differently now_, she mused, then hastily put the thought out of her mind. No - they had agreed: that was not something to think upon tonight.

"Does it feel any different?" she found herself asking.

A slightly regretful twist of his lips, accompanied by a slightly bemused (though non-committal) shake of his head appeared to be his version of an answer.

The fact that he still not had spoken, practically since they had left the house made her want to almost force him into saying_ something_...anything to break up this awful silence. So, she tried being less polite: "You know, we were all rather surprised when we heard you were conscripted."

Now he glared at her, seeming to read a thousand different things into her simple statement - none of which she meant entirely. "Why would it be a surprise? I'm able to serve, to do my duty as well as any man, regardless of title."

"Of course, and we would expect no less," she replied. "That you would answer the call, leave your home..."

"Quite right." His tone sounded self-assured, but his gaze was wary. He knew her too well.

"That you would go where you have no idea what is expected of you, forced to learn things you never desired to in the first place, all the while wondering if it will change you..."

With an almost disbelieving glance at her, he suddenly veered off the path towards the house - up onto the grass. He stood there silently for a minute, several feet away, then turned back around. "You see that as something to be ridiculed rather than something to be admired."

"Oh yes, Matthew - you're _quite_ capable, and you do very well for yourself wherever you go!" She practically rolled her eyes as she spoke.

But it was as if he wasn't even listening to her, just continuing on with his self-righteous platitudes. "The fact that I go where I'm told, that I do what is expected of me-"

"And then you _leave_!" she blurted out, her voice ringing out into the dusk.

He took a couple steps back towards her. "We said we weren't going to-"

"I am perfectly aware of what _you_ said!" Every word out of his mouth seemed to be positively infuriating. But indeed, she had not felt truly frustrated with him in so long, it was almost a relief to finally be so again. How ironic that this ability seemed to have returned tonight, of all nights.

Holding her stare for a moment, he then walked several steps away from her, taking a seat right on the lawn. He looked rather like a petulant child more than a grown man, and she couldn't help but feel her frustration dissipating (almost against her will), disappearing into the evening along with the sun.

After a moment, she approached him, cautiously seating herself down beside him, and somehow they found themselves staring at the sunset, in the shadow of the abbey (her home...it would one day be his house, though she doubted he would ever consider it his home). For a moment, it flashed through her mind that he might never get the chance, but she pushed the thought away.

Unfortunately, the idea was not so easily dismissed, and she surreptitiously stole a glance at him, trying not to make herself too obvious (but wanting, somehow needing to make sure he was indeed still there).

"Does it feel any different?" She repeated the question, her eyes now fixed resolutely on the sky, and the shadow being cast over them.

One hand was resting idly to her side, her palm flat against the ground, and he covered it with his own. She had to suppress a gasp, looking at him in wide-eyed shock - too stunned to react any further. He was still looking ahead, as if the gesture had been almost instinctual.

"Does it?" he asked, softly, now turning towards her, and she drew in a breath. He was not the same at all, and yet he was exactly the same. She looked at him, and he was too real. Everything about the situation was entirely too real.

She wanted to forget him. She _needed_ to forget him. Instead, she kissed him.

It was the worst thing she could have done. Suddenly, all she could do was remember - all she could think about was the one thing they had promised not to discuss tonight, on his last night here...but he _was_ here - after all this time - he was here and he was with her.

And he was kissing her back.

* * *

><p>The sun was dipping just below the trees when she had started out, and seemed even lower in the sky as she approached Crawley House. The basket was heavy and awkward - a marked contrast to the flimsiness of her excuse for being there.<p>

She told herself she couldn't remember the last time she'd visited (she could, of course - some details had been forgotten, but the memory itself remained). But obviously, it was no use thinking about that now.

Moseley answered the door, and she was tempted to simply hand over the basket to the man and leave without another word - even if that would have completely defeated the purpose of her visit.

Then she heard "Who is it, Moseley" and her feet forgot how to move, followed in brief succession by "Mary...is everything alright?"

She wanted to answer him truthfully, but did not (could not). Instead, she just stood there heavily, awkwardly with her heavy, awkward basket in the heavy, awkward silence that followed. Trying not to look at him, for he looked so different. She told herself it was the uniform, but it was more than that. Matthew was so...changed. Not in any perceptible way, but in a dozen small ways that had faded from her memory in those two years, and now suddenly she could think of nothing else.

He had taken a step towards her in the doorway, and somehow that shook her from her trance. "This is for you...and for your mother," she amended, hastily - extending the basket as if it was some kind of (ironic) peace offering.

She was about to continue with her explanation, when he unknowingly interrupted her. "Thank you...I will see that she gets it."

"Is she not at home?" The thought was almost impossible, considering the circumstances.

"...No." For a moment, he almost looked as if the idea had only just occurred to him. "She's still at the hospital. I passed Dr. Clarkson on my way here, and he told me she'd likely be detained well into the evening." He didn't elaborate as to why, but it was obviously unnecessary.

"Then you are...alone? Tonight?" she wondered in disbelief.

Shrugging, he replied, "I suppose I am."

Paralyzed with indecision, she stood in the doorway. He had made no move to invite her in (it was far too late for that). Indeed, it was too late for a great many things.

"Well then...I have no intention of going against your wishes from last evening, so...goodnight, Matthew..." She couldn't bring herself to say anything else, to utter the parting greeting. Any other words of encouragement felt false to her ears, so she left them unsaid.

As she turned to leave, she heard him call after her to wait. There was a slightly strident edge to his voice, and in spite of herself, she stopped.

"It's getting late," he pointed out. "...Shall I see you home?"

The fact that they had regressed into such complete strangers that he felt compelled to seek her permission almost made her want to deny it on principle. But tonight, she surrendered before the battle had even begun. What was the use in fighting now?

"If you like," she agreed, as neutrally as she could manage.

Closing the door behind them, they started across the walkway that led to the road. He trailed slightly behind her, and all at once, she was reminded of her first visit here. "Do you remember-" she started.

"Please, Mary..." Suddenly, his hand was on her arm and her eyes widened as they sought out his. He was looking intensely, almost frantically at her. "It's all in the past. I don't wish to remember anything, and I'd really rather not think about it tonight. Can we agree to that?"

For a moment, she couldn't speak. Memories seemed to be all they had left, and now he was asking her to bury them. Any other night, she might have at least offered a feeble protest.

Tonight, she assented: "Very well."

With the agreement in place, neither of them clearly had much reason to speak further. All topics of conversation had seemed to vanish, and their dull silence was absorbed into the backdrop of a bright, beautifully colored sunset painting the sky.

* * *

><p>The previous evening had been markedly civil, considering. Her family (and herself) were experts at pretending everything was perfectly ordinary. It could have been just another dinner, it might even have happened several years ago.<p>

She wondered if it was due to the timing of it. Matthew was only in Downton for a few days before he was due to leave. Three days, two nights: he'd arrived from Manchester on the first, had some sort of training on the second and was to depart by train on the third day.

Obviously, a dinner had been planned for both nights, but apparently taking charge of his life now included dictating dinner plans - for they were all rather surprised when he informed them he would be joining them on the first evening, but not the second. That he preferred to have a quiet meal alone with his mother on the last night. He'd included all the appropriate apologies, of course - it was not like him to be rude, or if it was, it was not like her family to ever acknowledge it.

Isobel had stayed on to work in the village hospital, so they saw her often, but Mary had barely recognized Matthew when he'd arrived. They'd been perfectly gracious to one another (they'd not seen each other in two years), and for the most part, it had been very easy to pretend he was just another distant cousin who'd come for dinner. Perhaps it was better that way. When he said goodbye to her at the end of the evening, it almost didn't register.

Almost.

The next day, however, that polite veneer had crumbled, and a strange restlessness had overtaken her. Naturally, Edith could be counted upon to point it out, and she'd quarreled with her sister like they were children. Then, Mary had left the house, walked aimlessly around the village all afternoon and snapped at her mother when she had the gall to inquire about her whereabouts.

Dinner had been no better - she'd barely eaten anything and had stalked off to her father's library at the first indication that it was over. Thank God they no longer had to dress for it (what a waste of time that would have been!) for she was barely at the table for half an hour.

The books in the library held no interest (she couldn't concentrate enough to choose one), and catching a glimpse of papers on her father's desk about the local regiment being formed made her feel strangely light-headed, so instead, she sat by the window and looked outside.

It had been such a beautiful day...unseasonably warm for this time of year, and the sun was only beginning to dim, revealing the slightest hint of early evening. She tried to look past the trees, down the road...but of course, she could see nothing.

Then she heard heavy-sounding footsteps approaching through the corridor, and without thinking, she bolted out of the room to investigate.

"Oh...hello, Anna."

A polite smile of acknowledgment (deference) appeared on Anna's face. Clearly, the news of Lady Mary's dark mood had made its way to the servants. "Good evening, m'lady."

Mary's brow furrowed - why had Anna sounded so...loud? Her eyes soon lit upon the basket Anna was carrying. "What is _that_?" Mary inquired, with incredulous bluntness. They occasionally had baskets taken over to the less fortunate in the village, but...never at this hour.

For a moment, Anna looked as if she was unable (or unwilling) to respond. "Her Ladyship asked that it be taken to Crawley House."

The mere mention of the location felt rather like a slap in the face. "What do you mean...they made their plans for dinner _perfectly_ clear!" She did not even try to hide the bitterness in her tone.

"Unfortunately, Mrs. Bird got a telegram this afternoon - had to rush off to see her brother." Anna didn't have to give details - everyone knew the importance of a telegram these days. "It's not much, m'lady, but Her Ladyship felt we should do something - just sandwiches and..."

But Mary had stopped listening - having unwittingly found herself standing in the middle of an unexpected memory...and could suddenly think of nothing else...

"I'll take it over," she found herself saying, as if in a dream. Anna started to raise all the expected objections, but Mary had already appropriated the basket. "I am sure my mother won't mind who delivers it, as long as it gets there. You'll be sure to tell her?"

"Actually, Her Ladyship has already gone up for the night. She mentioned something about a headache."

Mary knew the feeling all too well, but oddly enough, it was now beginning to subside a bit.

"Thank you, Anna."

Anna curtsied politely and was soon out of sight, as Mary carried the basket to the door and pushed outside. There had to be something more than sandwiches in here, surely - perhaps some wine or...fruit of some sort...

She had no idea what she was actually going to do (or even wanted to do) when she got there - her immediate future had become far too obscured by the past.

All she knew is she couldn't let the previous evening become her last memory.

The early evening sunlight warmed her back as she started down the path.

The End.


End file.
